I rub the towel over my hair and call out, “EM!”
He has no concept of boundaries or silence, so even asking feels ridiculous. Nothing.
I then try again. Louder. “Em?”
Still nothing, my blood runs cold. Because even if he were sleeping. Even if he were high off whatever bullshit idea he had five minutes ago. Even if he were pissed at me for telling him to stop talking about Sofia’s donut holes, he would’ve answered by now. Or yelled. Or even thrown something. Or demanded snacks.
I pull on shorts and a t-shirt. Slip into my slides and throw open my door, stomping down the hallway, about to bitch him out, but he’s not where I left him in the living room.
Not in his messy ass bedroom. I race around the house, throwing open doors and slamming them back. Letting my frustrations out on our home. If he’s playing some fucked up bullshit game of hide-and-seek, I’m going to beat his ass into next week.
A scrape of dread crawls up my throat.
“Em?”
It comes out softer this time. A plea more than a question.
I’m checking everywhere, panic gripping my heart. I even look behind the couch where he once tried to sleep because he was convinced the neighbor’s security camera was watching him jerk off through his window.
Nothing. No sounds. No dumb comments. No twin. The quiet swells until my hands start to shake. When I run back into the living room, where this all started, I catch the bowl by the door where I drop my keys and wallet.
Keys.
Only my Koenigsegg key and the spare house key remain. The motorcycle key. The one I put there because I haven’t had the energy to ride this week, and didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to attempt it, is gone.
My heart stops. Fully stops. Like someone reached inside my chest and yanked the cord to turn it off. I want to vomit and piss myself. My brain is speeding down the track, fucking me a second time with images of him in the hospital.
In the ICU. After surgery. On pain meds. My parents, crying. Me bawling. It’s horrific. I can’t stop seeing what I’ve already lived.
“No,” I whisper, because I can’t lose him.
Not again.
Not like that.
I sprint back to my bedroom, grab my phone, and run to the car. I don’t even bother with closing the door. My neighborhood is safe. No one will steal our shit.
I throw myself into the car. The engine roars to life, then I peel out of the driveway. Narrowly avoiding a couple walking their dog and shouting out a “sorry” even though they can’t hear me. I gun it through the streets. Almost take out the guard shack and turn right so fast that the back of my car fishtails.
I floor it to the last location where he was hit. Slamming on my brakes when the light turns red and narrowly avoiding running into the back of someone else.
My pulse hammers into my palms. My fingers wrap so tightly around the steering wheel that they ache. My knee bounces as I wait for the light to change. More images of how the accident scene was laid out.
My phone rings. Blasting loud as fuck through my speakers.
Unknown number.
I smash the button on my dashboard.
“Emilio?”
A fuck ton of noise on the other end. My panic spikes.
“Is this Massimo Dimas?”
“Yeah? Who is this?”
“This is Boston EMS. We have your brother?—”
